The Shirt

So when we took our little vacation (Joseph took a whole week and I had eight days, which overlapped into a long-ish weekend) to Idaho to visit the family, Joseph got his fishing in.  I mean he really got it in.  We got there on Saturday and he went and bought his license.  Then on Sunday and Monday we fished.  Tuesday we left.  I got to see most of my family because they came fishing with us on Sunday.  Then on Monday, I got some good face time with Mom, the only family member to go out with us.  I don’t fish, I read magazines and talk a lot and basically annoy Joseph when I drink too much Fisherman’s Coffee (a weak-as- tea blend in a thermos) and my feet start tapping the dock.  I had wanted to see friends.  I had wanted to go walk around my home town a little, maybe grab a fancy Idaho dinner with wine and paper napkins.  But we had to make do with a little lunch and shopping in Bonners Ferry between the morning and afternoon fishing trip on Monday.  It was nice.

    Joseph had to hit the store, too.  You know THAT store: the one that is the largest retailer in the world; the one that promises the lowest prices; the one that they say is destroying America.  Yep, we shop at THAT store.  And we love it (sorry little Chinese children).  We try to balance our love of this store by demanding Made in America items in other stores.  We have double standards, but that’s not the point.  The point is that I was very, very good and I didn’t buy anything for myself.  Joseph bought me a bar of soap at a tourist shop in Bonners Ferry, but I didn’t buy anything for me.  Joseph bought his fishing license, and the tackle, and spent the gas getting us up to the fishing holes, and he bought two new shirts.  One was a long sleeve tee that had a dog fishing for a boot and it said, “Still beats a day at work.”  The other, my friends, was beautiful.

                This shirt was a basic men’s flannel shirt with the collar and the buttons down the front.  Done up in mostly brown, the plaid also incorporates an ecru and an indigo-toned black.  Joseph bought it in his size, so when I was freezing my anatomy off on the first fishing day, Joseph pulled it out of the bag for me to wear over all my other sweatshirts.  And that’s when I knew.  I loved this shirt.  It loved me.  We were meant to be together. 

                Let me be clear, I have never stolen any of Joseph’s clothing (except for a red hooded sweatshirt, but I maintain that I knew he would have given it to me after it shrunk in the wash).  But I was going to have to steal this shirt.  I was the first one to wear it.  I was the first one to feel how soft and loving it was.  I was the one who could wear it over all my other layers.  Joseph usually gives me things.  He gives me everything that shrinks in the wash.  So I have a lot of hoodies that are in boring shades of men’s colors: gray (I actually love this one), black, etc.  Sometimes he gives me a shirt he’s done with and then sees it on my side of the closet a year later and accuses me of stealing it.  His memory is fuzzy and easily confused and very, very convenient for him.  That being said, I knew this shirt was mine. 

                We got back from vacation and I washed our clothing.  I put the shirt on my side of the room and wore it shopping.  Then I wore it to work.  And then, this morning, for no reason at all, Joseph was wearing the shirt! 

                “Hey,” I said.  “That’s my shirt!” 

                “No , I don’t think so,” he said, and left for work!  Just like that! 

                So then I whipped out the cell phone and start texting.  I am now going to disclose a real-life text conversation:

Frank:  Don’t get anything on my shirt.

Joseph: Fat chance woman! (He calls me woman as though it’s degrading, he’s very sexist.)

Frank:  It’s a LADY’s shirt!  You look like a lesbian!  (I’m very homophobic.)

Joseph:  Nice try.

Frank:  What was that?  All I could make out from your text was “cats, lady mullets, tampons.”

Joseph: Oh, you have the lesbianese translator function turned on … seeing as how you are GAY and not lesbian, I recommend you turn it off …

Frank:  Then how would I understand you or Oprah?

Joseph: I am sure you will figure it out. 

                So now that sexist cracker (and I think it is okay that I call him that because we are both white, right?) is prancing around his work place in MY shirt!  And now he’s getting all his manly vibes on it and when I get it back it’s going to smell like him!  It might be nice to smell him on clothing I borrow from him, but my clothes should smell like me!  (I currently smell like Butterfly Flower from Bath and Body Works.) 

                I need to plan my next move, which may be to embroider a supper cool flower on the collar … which will require I actually learn embroider, which I won’t, as I am lazy.  This war is far from over.  This shirt is mine.  Mine.  Mine.  Mine.